Happy Barricade Day 2008
by Emilie Rose
Summary: *Apologies for the missing portion of chapter 8. Let's try again.* Enjolras keeps vigil over a drunken Grantaire. Will be slash. Happy Barricade Day!
1. Happy Barricade Day

Happy barricade day

**Happy barricade day! Obviously, I don't own any of these characters, but I do believe my friend to be Enjolras reincarnated…**

I can hear the clock on a nearby church tolling the hour of one in the morning. One o'clock and I'm still sitting in this dimly lit café, working on a speech that will never be truly heard.

I am so tired of them praising me. They are so loyal to me and would follow me anywhere, but they know not why. It is not I they should idolize; it is my dream for France's future. I cannot understand why they do not grasp the magnitude of my words…

I hear a dull thud from the corner of the café and immediately look up. In his drunken stupor, Grantaire has fallen from his chair and is now lying on the floor.

If anyone were to ask, I would deny it, but this is the reason I have stayed so late tonight, as I have done for years. I cannot bear to think of this man sleeping all night alone on the hard wooden floor of this damned café. Of course he is an irritating cynic and a useless drunkard, but I would not allow anyone to remain in such a condition.

I stand and approach him cautiously, knowing full well that nothing can wake him from his unconscious state. Crouching by his side, I lay a hand on his shoulder, which, to my great surprise and dismay, causes Grantaire's bloodshot eyes to open halfway and stare up at me blearily.

Damn. Apparently tonight he merely collapsed from lack of balance. If he remembers this tomorrow morning, my existence as a marble statue will have cracked and crumbled away. I will no longer be able to maintain my uncaring façade.

Alright, I do care! I care about the stupid wastrel…perhaps much more than I should. I have no choice but to scold him; he behaves so foolishly, so beneath his abilities. But I still care for him. Though he publicly scorns my cause, I believe he understands it, which is more than I can say for the rest of my "followers." He is a good man, deep, down, if only he would let himself be.

And so I stay here every night, keeping silent watch over him and pretending that I am not even aware of his presence. Perhaps he suspected once or twice that I am the reason he always wakes up in his own bed, but these theories have been utterly swept away by my outward cruelty.

**Unfortunately, I have to go eat dinner now, so this is going to have to be a two-parter. But, happy barricade day anyways. See you tomorrow.**

**Emilie Rose**


	2. A Crack in the Marble

Hey everyone

**Hey everyone! Yeah, that took forever to update. Sorry…**

**Anyways, hope you all had a great Barricade Day. I went to school dressed as Enjolras. (Yes, I am a girl, and yes, I was stared at.)**

**Obviously, I don't own the characters.**

Presently, he looks up at me and I can clearly see the confusion in his dark eyes. "Apollo?" he slurs, the word almost unrecognizable. "What're you doing?"

"Making sure you didn't crack your thick skull open when you fell," I answer coldly. "There might be awkward questions if you turn up dead in your corner tomorrow morning."

"Thanks for the sympathy."

"I have no sympathy for the likes of you."

He looks away, his face hidden behind his tangled brown hair, but I believe I saw tears glistening in his eyes before they vanished from sight. "M'sorry," he mumbles, the words slurring even more than a few moments ago. "I'm pathetic, I know, and to a god like you I must be intolerable. I don't blame you for hating me…I'd hate me…"

"Shut up, winecask," I snap, loathing myself. "I'm in no mood to hear your drunken nonsense."

We stay there on the floor in silence for several minutes before I stand and march back to my table. I sit down and pretend to keep writing, but all I can really do is listen to the sound of Grantaire's quiet sniffling and hold myself back from rushing to his side once more. With each passing minute, I feel that I have lived another year. After a decade of this, Grantaire begins to make loud heaving noises. I turn slightly toward him, not enough so that I appear to be watching him, but in a way that I can see him out of the corner of my eye.

He has managed to drag himself onto all fours and is now shakily maintaining the position, his shoulders lurching violently. The most forceful of these motions finally yields results; Grantaire lets his head fall forward and empties at least one bottle of wine from his stomach.

I walk toward him slowly, each step carefully measured so as not to seem too fast or too slow. "Winecask," I say, hovering over him, "you are disgraceful. Now get a grip on yourself, get up, clean this mess, and leave."

I don't know what I expected him to do. Perhaps I thought he would obey or make some obnoxious comment typical of himself or not respond at all or…not this. He's looking at me, just looking at me like I've stabbed him. There are chunks of his dinner in his hair and his eyes are swimming with sorrow. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it. His entire face crumples and he bursts into tears. After a moment, he sits back on his haunches and buries his face in his hands.

"I'm s-sorry, Apollo…I am disgraceful, I know it….I'm useless…I shouldn't even waste your time by coming here…but I don't have anywhere else to go and…and I like it here…I like hearing your speeches, Apollo…Do you think it can really come true?...Do you think we could win?...I don't deserve to be a part of your efforts…I don't deserve to live in the world you want to create…"

He has fallen into a heap on the floor, his face lying on the rough boards, partially in his own vomit. I believe he is still speaking, but no words are distinguishable through his sobs.

I can no longer play this cruel game of disapproval and scathing dislike. Grantaire is begging me to reach out to him, something I would have done years ago, had I not been afraid that showing emotion would make me appear a weaker leader. Now is the time, for his sake, and to hell with what's best for me. To hell with what's best for France!

Sitting down on the floor, I reach my hand out and gently touch Grantaire's trembling shoulder. "Hush. Pull yourself together, Grantaire. You're acting childish." Gods! Why can't I just be kind to the man? I try again.

"We don't want you to leave, Grantaire. We need all the men we can get. You just have to get your infernal drinking under control."

Apparently, I've come closer to saying the right thing, for he looks up at me, tears still pouring down his ugly face. "'We.' I don't want the group to accept me Apollo. I don't care what they think. I only want you to consider me a worthy human being…It's all I've ever wanted."

Dammit! How do I answer that? I can't tell him how I feel. I can't tell him that I…no. I mustn't even think that. It's revolting. He's only a friend, and barely that. He's…he's…Dammit!

"Shut up, Winecask." He turns away again and resumes his crying. I didn't mean to say that. Gods, why can I do nothing but hurt this man?

"Grantaire, please," I begin again, sighing loudly. I grab his shoulders and force him to face me. "I'm sorry."

He looks stunned. "You are? You're…sorry? Does that mean you don't hate me?"

"Of course I don't hate you, Grantaire. You're just irritating."

He smiles weakly. "I know. That's why no one likes me."

This is it. This may be the best chance I get to tear down this wall I've built between us. I must speak. "I like you, Grantaire. I like you very much. What I dislike is your disrespect for yourself and unwillingness to hope for a better future."

"Hoping is opening yourself up for disappointment."

I have no answer for that, so I remain silent, but continue to hold his shoulders. After several minutes, exhaustion and inebriation cause Grantaire to slump forward and rest his head against my chest. I let my arms snake their way around his back, holding him to me gently. His breathing has slowed and returned to a steady pace. I think he may have fallen asleep.

**There will be at least one more chapter, so give me abut two weeks to have this thing finished. Thanks for reading!**

**Oh, and PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Emilie Rose**


	3. Moment of Understanding

**Hey there! I know it's been forever since I updated. I've been wasting all my creativity on my stupid **_**Hunchback**_** stuff. (No offence to Victor Hugo. I just wrote a drabble for every chapter and it took forever.)**

**On to the actual characters now! Enjoy…**

He is not sleeping. "Apollo," he mumbles, the sound so garbled, it barely qualifies as a word. I give a soft grunt of acknowledgement, urging him to continue. "I feel sick."

"You're drunk," I reply. "What do you expect?" Realizing that this is not very compassionate, I ask "Do you have to vomit again?"

He nods, and I can see his face flush as he turns his head away from me. Saying nothing, I pull him into a more upright position and wrap one arm around his waist for support. With my other hand, I pull his tangled hair away from his mouth and hold it in place.

He belches loudly, bringing wine up with the sound. I try not to look, for the shame visible on his face is heartbreaking. When he is finished, he begins to weep again.

I pull him close and stroke his hair, gently untangling each knot I come across. "Hush, Grantaire. It's alright. You'll feel better in the morning. Now just try to relax."

"That's all you can say?" he asks between shaky breaths. "I thought you'd be taking advantage of this wonderful opportunity to call me a pathetic, useless drunkard; a wastrel. Instead you're…God, Apollo."

"Shut up, Winecask." The words I have uttered so often in anger now take on a gentle, soothing quality. "Let's get you home."

I lift Grantaire form the floor and guide him to a chair. He sits there, sniffing quietly, as I mop up the floor and gather my books. Then I return to his side and wrap his coat round his shoulders. He leans heavily against me as we slowly make our way to the door.

Once outside, I hail a cab and help Grantaire in before giving the driver my companion's address and climbing in myself.

We ride in silence for several minutes before he says quietly, "Where are we going?"

"Your flat," I reply, suddenly apprehensive.

"How do you know where I live?"

I take a deep breath and silently pray that I sound convincing when I answer, "I make it a point to know where all my men live."

"Oh." He sounds disappointed. Was he expecting a different answer? I could surely give it to him, but… No. I have already revealed too much weakness tonight.

The journey continues and neither of us speaks. I cannot tell whether Grantaire is awake or not, but it doesn't really matter. This is right, finally. I am here with him while his body protests against the torture he inflicts upon it. He knows I am here and it eases his suffering. If only I'd had the courage to take my place with him years ago! The pain I could have saved us both!

But I must not think that way. What I did was for the best. What does our pain matter, if our happiness were to inhibit my plans for France's future? My country and her people must always come first. This truce with Grantaire cannot extend into our daily existence. I have no time for foolish men. What I do tonight is a single act of sympathy, and my past care of him was merely my duty to him as a fellow man.

It is Grantaire who notices that we have arrived at his flat. "Gods, Apollo, and I am the one incapacitated!" We extricate ourselves from the cab; Grantaire requires a bit of assistance. I then pay the driver, ignoring my drunken companion as he tries to force money on me.

When we enter Grantaire's small, malodorous flat, he kicks several of the many papers littering the floor under the bed, so as to conceal them from me. I pretend I do not see; let him feel that he is hiding them from me.

There have been nights when Grantaire's drunkenness had reached such an extent that I did not feel comfortable leaving him alone. The long hours of those nights led me to explore the dingy room in which the man resided and the paper carpeting his floor. They are rough copies and notes of my speeches that I have discarded after perfecting the words. I don't know how or why he has taken the time to collect them, but he has.

The room is furnished with nothing more than a cot and two overturned crates that serve as a chair and table, I assume. I sit cautiously on one of the crates; it does not seem stable enough to support a man's weight. Grantaire flops unceremoniously onto the cot and lies facing me, his glassy eyes making my heart twist uncomfortably.

"Thank you, Apollo," he slurs, what I can only assume to be a smile twisting his lips. "You needn't remain here in such low company any longer."

He thinks he is sparing me by sending me away; I can see in his eyes how he wants me to stay. And I cannot bear to leave now. We have come so far tonight! But he would be suspicious if I remained.

I stare at the floor, for I know the hurt that will be visible on his face when I answer softly, "Yes. I suppose it is late. And I've still got work to do for several classes, as well as the speech for tomorrow night's gathering." My hand is on the doorknob when I realize that it will not hurt to show a bit more kindness. I turn toward Grantaire, who is watching me from his cot with large, doleful eyes. "Goodnight," I whisper.

He smiles so faintly and knowingly, as if he knows what it costs me to say it. "'Night, Apollo. And don't worry, I won't tell them about your human side." Although the words are delivered in a deliberately nonchalant manner, I know that he means it. He understands how I must remain strong in their eyes and will make sure that my image is maintained. I nod, then turn quickly and leave. I have never felt more grateful in my life.

**Should I just leave it there? Unrequited and unfulfilled? Or should I give them a chance at happiness?**


	4. Beyond Apollo

**HAPPY BARRICADE DAY! Here is my offering to Victor Hugo and his wonderful characters. The first chapter of this was actually last year's story, so this year, I am merely posting the next chapter.**

**This is where things get a tad OOC. In the book, these two troubled young men love each other (I think) but don't act on it. For this to turn out differently, Enjolras has to make a conscious decision to stop being so bloody cold. He has to let people (Grantaire) in. But his character would never do that! I believe that Enjolras has feelings, deep feelings, but keeps them contained. My story will keep him as Enjolraic as possible while having him choose to let things out a bit more.**

**This chapter specifically is a lot of inside Enjolras's head; what he feels, wants, and is too afraid to want. Not much action, but… I just love pondering how that great mind works!**

As I have done since the day I realized I was beginning to care for the useless drunkard, I attempt to ignore him after our night of… fallen barriers. True to his word, he does not mention the incident to the others, nor to me in confidence. I would think that the large amounts of alcohol wiped all memories of the night from his mind, but there is something different about his attitude. Yes, he still mocks me and my cause, but it seems to be more out of habit now than a desire to irk or humiliate me. His words are no longer laced with that biting tone which expressed how ridiculous he found our plans. Of course this minor change may be my imagination, and even if it is not, it has not affected his drinking habits in the least.

I wish that I could address his drinking directly, that I could set aside my blasted indifference for just a moment and tell him how I cannot bear to watch his self destruction any longer. I wish there was some way to tear down all the barriers I have erected between us and be the steadying hand, the friend, he so badly needs.

Yet I know I cannot. But why? Why must I be so stubbornly cold? _To maintain respect, _the leader within me replies. Sometimes I despise that voice. I know it is this that has sustained me through all my planning; this piece of me that Grantaire calls "Apollo". It is that stoic man that the others follow, the ideal in human form. If ever Marcellin Enjolras were to reveal himself, they would forget the glory of what they desire. Our future republic would seem mundane and flawed and not worth dying for.

Marcellin. Who was the last person to call me by that name? My mother? A given name would seem a term of endearment for her.

Who is he? What is he like? I have forbidden him normal feelings for so long that I believe I may have smothered him. And I think it may be for the best. In the night, Marcellin is afraid. He worries that he will not succeed and that all he will achieve is the death of his friends. But the marble Apollo has no friends. He has comrades in arms. You see, it is much easier to send fellow warriors to their deaths than friends. So Marcellin is kept caged away and allowed to quake only when he is alone. The others have never- and can never- see him.

But Grantaire. With each insult thrown at Apollo, he makes it perfectly clear that he can see Marcellin underneath. He mocks the man he sees within the living ideal, for he knows that it is cowardice that keeps the emotions hidden. Yes, Winecask, cowardice even greater than hiding down bottles to avoid hoping for the not-so-impossible better tomorrow. I hide, for I am afraid; afraid not of death but of failure. Of failing the people of this great nation.

He is the only person who has ever understood this human part of me, though he only mocks me for it. Perhaps I deserve such punishment for the scorn I show him. I know what he is as well as he knows me, yet I refuse to give him that shred of compassion I know will save him from himself.

What is the harm of being open with him in private? The others will not see my weakness if we continue as we have been- ignoring the moment of… camaraderie… between us, though I know neither of us has forgotten it. I can help him through his despair, show him why the future is worth fighting for.

And if I dared to tell him of my fears, he who knows that I am but a man, perhaps he could-

But I am being foolish. He is a bitter man who scorns our insurrection on principle. Seeing my weakness in caring for him flattered him, which is why he has kept silent Were he simply to see me faltering, to see the great Apollo without his sunlit glow, he would mock me.

"Enjolras. Enjolras? We have news from the men on the Rue de Rivoli."

I blink and look in the direction of the voice calling me. The men are arriving for tonight's gathering, waiting for me to tell them the next step in our plan, and here I sit, wishing I could lay me burdens on another's shoulders. Absolutely pathetic!

I stand and take a deep breath, exhaling away my personal difficulties with the stale air. Straightening me scarlet vest and my shoulders, I approach Comberferre, who had called to me upon entering the café.

"What news?"

"They will join us." Like all the young men do, Comberferre attempts to remain professional in my presence, but he is so thrilled to be delivering more volunteers, he cannot keep the eager grin from his face.

I soften my eyes slightly, so he knows that I am pleased. Gods! Why can "Apollo" not congratulate his comrades on their hard work with a smile?

"Are they armed?" I ask.

"Yes. Fifty-four rifles between them and at least a keg of powder."

Reports of more volunteers trickle in from several other men during the course of the evening. The people have heard us and they will fight by our sides as we risk all for their freedom. If such news does not stir Grantaire from his cynicism, I do not know what will.

But what has this to do with him? Why should I care if the wastrel believes in us or not? I do not need his support, not when I have all the common men of Paris fighting together.

The meeting has ended and the subsequent conversations are breaking up. I see Joly asking Grantaire if he would like assistance home, for the man is far too inebriated to find his way to that filthy room himself. Grantaire consents and I inwardly sigh in relief. Of course, I do not care if he chooses to spend the night in some gutter, but while he remains in the café, he is my responsibility. It has been a long day and I wish to go home, not worry about that fool. Worry? Do I worry about him? I worry about what to do with him, for he is a bother, but concern?

I shouldn't be concerned for him, but I know I am. I picture him drowning himself in that poison he finds so dear, lying unconscious in some filthy alley, beaten from a barroom fight, and a hundred other all too likely dreadful things. At times, I have dreamed of his death, and in the dreams I am crying. I cannot remember the last time I cried. I wonder at these moments, for they have no reason. Or perhaps I simply do not like the reason.

I watch Joly guide Grantaire out the door, for he has drunk away his ability to balance. Before leaving, the hypochondriac calls back to me, "Goodnight, Enjolras. I'll have those names for you tomorrow."

"Thank you, Joly. Be here at six tomorrow; we have many things to review."

Just before they disappear into the darkness, I hear a slurred voice mumble, "'Night, Apollo." I do not answer.

I can hear the bells of the church chiming eleven. I suppose I could finish my schoolwork at home; it is too late to be troubling the owners of the café. Bending down to gather the books that I have placed under my chair, I see a crumpled piece of paper on the floor near the chair that Grantaire has just vacated.

_Probably another one of my speeches that he's stolen, _I think, but I cannot help picking the paper up and unfolding it. It is not my speech; it is me. Someone has drawn a sketch of me standing on the billiards table, speaking to the group as I do so often. The artist is incredibly skilled, for he has captured each crease in my clothing perfectly. But looking at my face, I believe some liberties were taken. True, each feature resembles mine, but put together as a whole, the drawing is much more… handsome. I am beautiful in this simple ink drawing, strong and powerful as I dream to be, but can never quite master. I am… Apollo.

Realization dawns on me as I see this ridiculous title that Grantaire has bestowed upon me scrawled in the lower right corner. So the drunkard is also an artist? I feel that there is much to this man that he has kept hidden from me.

I fold the drawing carefully and slip it into my breast pocket, fully intending to find a safe place for it when I return home. But shouldn't I really be upset that the Winecask is drawing me while I speak? Shouldn't I be disturbed, disgusted, anything but flattered? I realize as I think the words that that is precisely what I feel. I am proud that Grantaire sees this man within me, pleased that he cares enough to draw me like this.

Cares? What am I saying? Grantaire cares about nothing. And I find him and all that he does rude wasteful.

Yet as I walk home, I feel the paper in my vest warming me, and making me feel more understood by another man than I ever have before.

**TRIVIA QUESTION: Where did I get the street name from? **Hint- it has nothing to do with Les Miserables or Victor Hugo, but other French literature that I love** If you know, review or private message me the answer and an idea for a story you want me to write and I'll write it for you!**

**Please, please review as a Barricade Day present to me!**


	5. Responsibilities and Control

**The writing in this chapter is a little off. Sort of choppy and stream-of-consciousness. But remember that this is all inside Enjolras's head and if he's not feeling quite up to snuff, he is more than likely to lose a bit of his eloquence.**

**Of course, not my characters.**

****We didn't have any takers on last chapter's trivia question (Check my Author's Note at the end if you missed it.) so I'm gong to try again. **_**Why is it cool that a dude named Sorel runs the Café Julien? What French novel am I referencing?**_** Let me know your guess and if you get it right, I'll write you any story you want (With a rating of T or lower)!**__******

I can no longer convince myself that I despise Grantaire, that he bothers me, and that I do not wish to be his friend. I understand his fears, his reasoning behind the cold cynicism with which he mocks our cause.

And since finding that sketch, I am surer than ever that he understands me as well. He sees me, no matter how hard I try to hide. Foolishly, I find myself wondering what he would see if I allowed him access to my emotions.

But France needs me and I cannot allow a personal relationship to distract me from this cause. I force thoughts of Grantaire from my mind and throw myself even more forcibly into my work.

Days pass, as do the sleepless nights in between. I stand in the café each evening with my back to Grantaire's corner and I do not even bother responding to his slightly lessened flow of insults. I leave shortly after the others, abandoning the lost cause of Grantaire at his table. And perhaps the guilt of abandoning him contributes to my inability to sleep, but I would not have time even if my mind were at ease; I am much too busy taking inventory of our weapons and men, writing pamphlets, and trying to keep up with my classes.

I arrive late to the café one evening; some of the other men have already arrived. Ignoring the pounding in my temples, I set my books down at my usual table and shuffle through my papers, searching for those needed to run the upcoming meeting.

"Late tonight, oh Great One?" The sound of Grantaire's slurred voice doubles the aching in my head. I am much too tired to waste my precious time on his nonsense. But scolding him is only rewarding him with the attention he craves, so I keep my mouth shut and go on with my work.

"You are later than usual," a different, less grating voice, says. I turn to find Comberferre studying my face intently, his brow furrowed with what seems to be concern. "Are you alright, Enjolras? You look rather pale."

I immediately stiffen at his words. The men are never to see me weak, not even if I were dying. And I am not dying. I merely have a headache that has persisted for several days. Apparently, it and lack of sleep are wearing me down to the point where I look visibly weakened. Dammit!

"I am quite alright, Comberferre, but thank you for your concern," I say shortly, praying that the shaking in my voice is audible only to myself. "Now what have you heard from the men at the Rue de Rivoli?"

I concentrate with all my might on his voice and carefully record the names of the new recruits, blocking out my mortal frailties with work as I have always done.

I find myself seated at my usual table several hours later, working on a paper that needs to be handed in tomorrow morning. The church bells chime two, telling me that it already is tomorrow morning and that I have only a few short hours left to finish this paper and… do something else. I know that last night's meeting had left me with something else to do, but I can't quite remember. The entire evening is a bit of a blur, actually. All that I remember clearly is the pain in my head and Grantaire's horrid voice shouting insults and pointing out my exhaustion as I tried to speak.

I write another few lines before I feel my head nod forward, exhaustion taking over for a moment. But my mind will not give in, and I jerk myself upward. Fragments of thought drift through my mind; sentences for this paper, slogans for my next speech and- of course! I have to meet with the barman at the Café Julien!

The paper can be written any time before nine o'clock, but the café closes around three in the morning. Hurriedly, I shove my books into my bag and run the six blocks to the Julien.

I pause outside the door to catch my breath and breathe deeply in an attempt to quell the queasy feeling that has settled in my stomach. Stepping inside after regaining my composure as much as I will be able to without a good night's sleep, I approach the back counter and address the barman.

"I am here to speak to Monsieur Sorel."

"You are speaking to him," the man says shortly. "What do you want?"

I lean forward so as not to be heard by any customers, though there are only two or three men left and I believe them to be far too inebriated to hear anything. "A republic."

Without a word, the man leads me into a private room behind the bar, where we can talk freely of what he has to offer.

I leave an hour later with twenty five more names and four additional kegs of powder on my list. This is well worth another sleepless night; it is worth the poor mark I will get on my paper if I even manage finish it. France and her people are worth all the suffering in the world.

My headache has spread to my neck and shoulders; the pain of simply remaining upright is nearly unbearable. A scratchy sort of discomfort has settled in the back of my throat and as I think of the three page speech I must give at tonight's meeting, a part of me wants to run home and hide. But there is still so much to do.

"Oh, dear me! The sun has lost its glow! Now we shall all wither in the darkness."

I have taken Grantaire's rudeness for years, and through it all I have continued to consider him a friend of sorts (though I would never tell him such a thing). But I am tired and sore and my hope is starting to fade. I cannot be spoken to in this way any longer. I cannot risk letting the others notice my weakness.

Setting aside the papers I had been discussing with Courfeyrac, I turn toward Grantaire. The room goes silent; they want to see their leader put this arrogant piece of filth in his place, and I will not disappoint them.

"You have been withering all your life, you wastrel. No light from me or from Heaven itself could change that." My eyes burn into him, daring him to talk back.

The man never did have much sense. "Come now, Apollo. You can't think that poorly of your loyal servant. Do you doubt I will be there when you lead us all to our deaths."

The lightheadedness that has followed me all day vanishes as I stand, pushing my chair away so forcefully that it crashes to the floor. The noise echoes in the silent café. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears and a voice in my head repeating, _For the last time, Winecask, shut up. Shut up! _as I walk slowly toward him. These noises build to a crescendo in my head, ceasing at the overpowering sound of my hand coming in harsh contact with Grantaire's face.

Nothing can be heard except the reverberation of the strike. The red clouds slowly recede from my line of vision, revealing the frozen stares of my loyal followers, looking at me as though they have never truly seen me before. But all my mind registers seeing is the stunned face of Grantaire. His mouth is slightly open and his face has drained of all colour except for my brilliantly red handprint on his cheek. He does not seem at all angry, as I would have imagined, nor has he made some cruel comment that would sting me worse than my hand stung him. (Would he believe me if I told him that his casually offensive words actually hurt me?)

He stands dumbly before me, embodying the stillness of marble as completely as he says I reflect its coldness. All that moves is the light reflecting in his eyes. Sudden horror washes over me as I realize the cause of this sorrowfully dancing light; his large bloodshot eyes are filling with tears.

I feel my mouth open, though I have no idea what I intend to say. But I have no time to stutter pointless words, for Grantaire suddenly rushes forward, pushing me out of his way as he flees the café.

The defenders of France's republic stare at their leader in shock. My head begins to pound again, much harder than before, and my stomach writhes. Marcellin wants to run after the man who knows him so well, the man he desperately wishes to call 'friend'; Apollo forces him to remain and repair the damage done to his stony image. "Let's get back to work."

"Don't you think that was a bit harsh, Enjolras?" It is little Jean Prouvaire, normally so quiet, who has spoken.

_Yes, _I want to reply. _I didn't mean it at all, but the damn Winecask hurt me so deeply and I'm tired and- _"I suppose, but the man must learn to hold his tongue. We're better off with one man less than with a drunkard."

And that is the end of it. The meeting continues as if there had been no interruption. I know they are wondering where Grantaire is and why I lost my perfect control, but they do not dare speak. I think for a moment that Comberferre will when it is only the two of us left in the café, but he simply tells me to get some rest before disappearing into the night which swallowed up Grantaire several hours earlier.

**OKAY! Happy 2****nd**** Anniversary to me! Two years ago today I became a member of . Of course, my first story was not posted for two days, because it takes 48 hours to activate a new account. But I'm excited, so pretty please review me, even if you normally wouldn't, as a sort of birthday present.**

**I feel that I may have crossed some out-of-character-ness barrier with this. Let me know if this is sacrilege.**


	6. Fever

**Chapter 6, after a long delay.**

**Enjolras feels quite unwell in this chapter, so his thought process becomes not-very-Enjolraic. Please try to deal with it.**

**I got absolutely no reviews on the last chapter and I don't know if that means you all hate this. If you don't and want me to continue PLEASE tell me. I need a morale booster. But if you want this story to go die, tell me that too (and why you dislike it). I'll try to give it a makeover, or maybe I'll kill it.**

I cannot sleep at all, for I am consumed by guilt and a pounding headache. I tell myself that I do not really care about the scene in the café, but tonight I do not even half believe my own lies. He noticed that I was ill, which means that he cares more than any of the others. Or does he simply examine me more closely, looking for a crack in my façade that he can rip open?

I don't know. I don't think I know anything anymore. But Grantaire knows all. He knows I am faltering, though I assure my followers that I am not. He knows we are all marching to our deaths and we cannot truly hope to win, though I have somehow managed to convince myself and those around me otherwise. He knows how badly I need him. But this is ridiculous! I need no one, least of all him, and even if I did, how could he know?

My thoughts are running in feverish circles and I am neither sleeping nor getting anything accomplished. Dragging myself from my rumpled bed, I sit at my kitchen table and begin work on a paper for a class that I must attend at 8:30 tomorrow morning.

All too soon the night is over. I know that what I have written is rubbish, but at least it is something. Gathering up my belongings and taking not quite enough time to make sure I look presentable, I hurry off to face another day filled with far too many responsibilities.

The day passes in a haze of pain and by the time I find myself at the Café Musain, I have all but forgotten what occurred here less than twenty-four hours ago. I am focused simply on getting through this meeting, going home, and forcing myself to sleep.

But then the door to our back room opens and Vivien Grantaire walks in. Half the men are staring at him in shock; the rest are watching me with ill-disguised curiosity. My first instinct is to have the fool forcibly removed for such a display of nerve. He does not, however, say a single word as he retreats into his usual corner and he seems not to have ordered any alcohol upon arriving. I resume talking and direct the meeting as before, ignoring our surprising increase in number.

As I talk, I cannot help but glance at Grantaire several times. He looks different somehow, as if he has finally been restrained… or broken. Though the tears have left his eyes, his face shows the same hurt expression it wore just after I struck him. I want to feel guilty, perhaps I want to consider apologizing, but the pain in my head and all my muscles require my full effort to control.

The men stay late and volunteer for tasks that still require attention. Our plans are extensive and tonight we are giving them all a careful examination. At a quarter to eleven, my strained voice gives out and I am forced to lead the meeting with a hoarse whisper. I receive several concerned looks and Comberferre asks me nervously if I would rather adjourn for the night and continue tomorrow. But I am too proud to let them see me cave in to my physical frailties; shaking my head at Comberferre, I pull several maps out of my bag and begin marking where we will build our defenses.

It is well past midnight. The men are watching me intently, so I must be making sense, but I no longer know what I am saying. There is a dreadful ringing in my ears which is causing the pain in my head to double. It's so very cold in here! I glance toward the fire and see that it is blazing. Why, then, is it not warming the room? Would I look too weak if I fetched my coat? No one else seems cold; perhaps they'll think I'm running a fever. Am I?

Grantaire is watching me from his corner. As far as I can tell, he hasn't had anything to drink all night. Why is he here? Did I not make it clear last night that he is not welcome? Why is he looking at me like that? Of course, he can see how exhausted I am. He is the only one who can… or perhaps the only one who cares to notice? He hasn't said a word tonight; he's probably afraid I'll hit him with something more painful than my hand. Tonight, I actually wish he would interrupt. Anything to make me stop talking would be a relief.

I stop after each sentence to swallow down the nausea rising in my throat. For a moment, I think of the slice of bread and mouthful of cheese I forced myself to eat several hours ago and I am very nearly sick. I mustn't think of food, or of anything except breathing deeply and slowly.

Joly calls out to me, asking some question I do not understand. The room twists as I turn to face him and I find myself clinging to the back of my chair for support. Everything is spinning. The fireplace has exploded out into the room, burning all it touches. I think my jacket must have caught fire, for the oppressive heat is suddenly choking me.

My knees buckle beneath me. I can't do this! I can't stand anymore. Just let me rest for a moment, please… I'll be alright. But why am I fighting so hard for a cause that is sure to fail? I don't want to struggle anymore. I only want to sleep.

My head rolls back, for I no longer have the strength to hold it high. I am falling, falling into a deep, cold darkness where there are no more responsibilities and where I am asked to do nothing but breathe…

The world from whence I so recently came is making so much noise that it is ruining my quiet blackness. I think I hear my name. People are grabbing me, hurting me. Why can't they leave me alone?

One voice rings out above the others. I don't remember who it is, but it sends a peculiar feeling through my body. I am at once irritated and sure that I am safe. "Back up, for God's sake! Give him some air!"

A cool hand gently brushes my hair off of my face. It feels so good! "Come on, Apollo. Wake up. You're strong; just open your eyes and you'll be alright."

But I don't want to be strong. I want to stay right here and sleep. Would he keep his hand on my face like this while I rest, just for a bit?

I have no sooner thought these words than the hand vanishes. "Why don't you all go home?" The voice sounds protective, the way a father might sound. Of course, I am only speculating, for my father never protected me.

"And leave him in your care? Not to be offensive, but you can barely care for yourself."

"I'm sober. I'm responsible as any of you when I can see straight. And he wouldn't want all of you seeing him in this condition."

Another voice joins the argument against the man standing over me. "You would be the one he would least want with him."

Why would I least want the man who so obviously cares the most for me?

He does not discuss his merits with them further; he simply says, "Go now. I'll look after him well."

The fact that such a weak argument sends them away shows how little they actually care about me. I am glad they are gone.

That wonderfully cool hand is on my face again. "They're gone, Apollo. Everything will be fine. You don't have to talk anymore. Please just wake up."

He sounds so worried. I want to tell him I'm only sleeping, but cannot make my lips move. Slowly, painfully, I force me eyes open. The room is too bright and still spinning. I am about to return to the darkness when I see Grantaire watching me with concern on his mismatched features.

For years, he has endured my cold remarks and returns each night to hear me reprimand him again. Last night, I struck him and chased him from this place where he has tried to win my acceptance. And still he is here, keeping me from prying eyes and soothing me with his gentle hand.

"You have finally seen the marble crumble," I croak softly. "How does it feel?"

"Horrible," he replies. "It is my place to be sprawled on the floor, not yours."

"Grantaire… I am so sorry. Last night, I-"

"Hush. I know. I deserved it and you were ill. I saw how tired you were; I shouldn't have baited you."

I am too exhausted to protest. We can continue this later. Now, I must try to preserve whatever remains of my dignity. I try to sit, but lack the strength. Grantaire wordlessly pulls me up and leans me against his chest.

The motion sickens me so that not even closing my eyes stops the spinning in my head. I breathe deeply and smell the stale wine that has dried on Grantaire's vest. Swallowing is no longer of any use. My cheeks flush with shame as the unbreakable Marcellin Enjolras vomits on his loyal Winecask.

He does not even flinch, but simply holds me, rubbing my back with one hand and pushing my unkempt hair away from my mouth with the other. "That's it, Enjolras. You'll feel better once you get it all out. Go ahead."

It feels strange to hear him say my name, but I like it. He pronounces 'Enjolras' like a song; as if it is the most beautiful word he has ever spoken.

I am sick again, but am no longer ashamed. Grantaire will not think less of me for this, for he already knows that I am quite human. He will stay with me and protect my reputation; if he has not exposed my frailties to my followers by now, I can trust him not to do it in the future.

He is talking to me, saying something about a cab and home, but I cannot comprehend the meaning. His quiet, rough voice is a lullaby to my fevered brain and I listen to it until I fall finally, blissfully asleep.

**I was going to make this chapter a lot longer, but decided to break it into two pieces because I really wanted to put something up today. Again, I really need advice on this, so please review!**


	7. Love, The Future Is Thine

**FINALLY! Chapter 7 is done! Of course, I don't own any of this.**

**The chapter title is taken for a line spoken by Enjolras. Knowing the line is this chapter's trivia question.**

I am suffocating in oppressive heat. My body is shaking, perhaps trying to rid me of whatever is burning my flesh. Something cold and wet is slithering over my face, making it easier to breathe. I relax, knowing that this thing that is now inching its way down my neck will protect me. The darkness consumes me again.

The warmth around me is as comforting as the coolness that has settled on my forehead. I am lying on something soft. My body is weak; I doubt I could move if I wanted to. But the ache that has been in my muscles for so long has dissipated. Something is moving slowly through my hair, smoothing it and pushing it away from my overheated face. A low noise resonates in my ear; a sort of spoken lullaby of meaningless words. I still hear it in my dreams long after I have drifted off to sleep.

There is a warm pressure on my chest; I wonder if some small animal has fallen asleep on me. Opening my eyes causes a dull pain to shoot through my temples, but I ignore it as I have always tried to dismiss my body's weaknesses and attempt to locate the source of the pressure.

A large hand is resting over my heart. My eyes travel up the arm until they reach two mud-coloured orbs staring down at me with a relieved expression that still holds a touch of fear. "Finally decided to rejoin the world of the living, Apollo?" Grantaire tries to make the remark sound offhand, but I can hear the concern in his voice.

"What are you doing here, Winecask?" He flinches and turns away. I didn't mean it that way; I am truly surprised to find him here, for I know how little I deserve it. But should I be surprised? Where would he go if he gave up following me?

"Grantaire…" I take a deep breath. The pain in my head has doubled. "Grantaire, why are you here?" He notices the gentle quality of the words and turns back, though the tense manner with which he holds himself implies that he expects me to lash out again.

"You were so ill. I- I was afraid to leave you. But your fever broke last night… How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright." And this is mostly true. Yet I am confused by Grantaire's reference to 'last night'. Was it not only last night that the fever developed? He looks uncomfortable when I question him, innocently asking the time.

"The fever was so high, Apollo... You were delirious… The doctor talked about cutting off your hair to cool your head… I- I wouldn't let him." He looks as if he is about to cry and I wonder briefly if he is drunk. I am surprised by my lack of revulsion when he reaches out and strokes my still-long hair.

"How long was I out?"

"Three days."

My mind is flooded with a list of responsibilities. I remember with horror that I was already falling behind in my classes. I had arranged to meet with Monsieur Sorel on Sunday night. The men were due to report the results of their travels to whichever part of the city they had been assigned at our last meeting.

Ignoring the ache in my head, I kick back the blankets that Grantaire used to quell the chills that I do not remember experiencing and stagger across the room, shoving papers in my bag while simultaneously attempting to change my shirt.

My body is still weak and my fingers are trembling; I cannot manage to button my vest. Though I know it is foolish, considering all that has happened over the last several days, I find myself suddenly ashamed to be fumbling in the presence of my most loyal follower.

Most loyal. Vivien Grantaire, the drunkard who mocks me at every turn, cares more for me than all of the others combined. I wonder if I have always known that his behavior does not represent scorn for my cause, but love for me greater than that which can be felt for a mere idea. Perhaps I have, but was merely afraid to admit it to myself.

His hands are rough and calloused but so very gentle when they touch mine. I do not fight him as he removes both my vest and my bag from my hunched shoulders and guides me back to the bed.

I am glad that he does not force me to lie down, but the dizziness I thought I had shaken returns when he sits beside me, leaving his hand resting on my back.

"Don't worry about it." His voice is as soothing as his hands. Am I so starved for personal attention that I can be comforted even by Grantaire? Or does my caretaker's identity make it all the more pleasing? "It was only one day of classes, Enjolras, and we'll help you finish the other tasks. You needn't run this entire revolution by yourself."

'Enjolras'. It still has that prayer-like quality when he says it. 'We'. He is including himself in the group of people that will assist me, and I somehow believe him completely.

I want to put my head on his shoulder and stay safe within his grasp until the world rights itself without my help. The walls I have so carefully built are lying around me in pieces and I desperately wish I did not have to resurrect them.

My spirit nearly breaks as I look at Grantaire with calm approval and flatly say, "Thank you."

He looks as crushed as I feel. _Please, Grantaire, _the human inside me begs. _Say something. You've been here caring for my body all these days. Now help my soul. I don't want to shut you out. I'm afraid!_

"Of what?"

My face drains of colour as I realize that I have spoken the last sentence aloud. How do I explain this away? How do I-

Something within me snaps; some dam I built without even realizing what I was blocking cracks. Grantaire draws back when I look at him, for he is startled by what he sees in my eyes. It is the expression a drowning man gives his rescuer as he tries to grasp the proffered rope.

"Of losing. Of destroying the lives of all these young men who have put their faith in me. I am afraid that my life is drawing to a close and I will have nothing to show for all my time here; that when it is all laid out for the angels, I will find that my words were never heard." Something hard presses against my throat, making it difficult to continue speaking. "I am afraid to be afraid, or to feel anything at all, for it may weaken me… and my ability to lead. I am afraid to let them see beyond the mask of marble. I- Why is it such a crime for me to be human?"

I bury my face in my trembling hands and sob. My mind scolds me, shouting that I am behaving like an obnoxious child, that what I am doing is embarrassing and undignified, but I cannot stop. And despite the dull shame burning in the pit of my stomach, it is a comfort to release my pain at long last. Grantaire pulls me tightly against him; I lean into the embrace, overcome by a feeling of safety.

"You are the only person who believes you should be inhuman, Enjolras. The others simply accept the fact that you are due to your behavior. But I'm smarter than they; it's why I pester you so terribly. I want to pull you off your gilded pedestal, Apollo, so you'll take a moment to be yourself. You're a better man than that cruel statue."

They are the words I have needed for so very long. I know that I cannot be anything other than a gilded idol for the others, but perhaps, with this one man…

I do not respond to Grantaire; there are no words suitable for what I feel, which I myself do not fully understand. He holds me tighter, acknowledging that he has felt my nod of gratitude and wordlessly responding that he understands once again.

I awake without having any recollection of falling asleep. Grantaire has placed me back under the blankets and left the room. He is at my side in an instant, however, when I groan after a failed attempt to sit up in bed. Was he watching me from the doorway?

We do not mention what transpired before I fell asleep. He asks me if I am hungry; I answer in the affirmative. I thank him when he brings me food and when he clears the tray. At eight o'clock, he insists that I go to sleep and assures me that he will not prevent me from returning to my hectic routine as long as my fever is completely gone by morning. I assume that he is going to spend the night, but I do not know precisely where and cannot find the courage to inquire.

He sleeps in the hard wooden chair beside my bed, not even borrowing one of my many blankets to keep comfortable. His large eyes are already open and staring at me when I finally manage to pull my heavy eyelids back. He smiles warmly at me, the sort of look only shared between friends. Are we friends? I hope so.

"Morning, Apollo. Going to try to face the world today?"

"If you'll let me, doctor." I don't know why I said that. Neither, apparently, does Grantaire.

"My God, Apollo! An offhand, jocular comment directed at your pathetic Winecask? The fever must have damaged you mind." He flashes me that lopsided grin I have so often wished to tear from his face. "Get yourself ready; I'll fix breakfast."

My table cannot be used for eating; it has been swallowed up in books, papers, maps, and far too many unfinished speeches. Grantaire therefore pulls two chairs next to my unoccupied bed and places plates of toast and cheese on the mattress.

We eat together in comfortable silence, though I notice Grantaire shooting me several worried looks. He presses money into my hand as I step out the door of my flat, making me promise to take a cab to the university. I agree without protest.

"Enjolras!" Even when shouting, he makes my name sound lovelier than if it were sung by an opera star. The cabby stays his whip just an inch from his horse's flank as Grantaire leans in the small window to speak to me. "If you feel ill, come back and rest. I'll come by in the afternoon to see if you need anything. Just swear to me that you won't push yourself."

The concern filling his eyes somehow makes his unappealing features align in a way I had never before seen. He looks- not handsome, no- but peaceful and strong, descriptions I could never before have believed he would achieve. "Of course I will. I wouldn't want to end up back in your care." I smile as I say it, and he smiles back.

Though I am plagued by a slight headache throughout the day, I do not return to my flat and am quite looking forward to tonight's meeting at the Café Musain. Hopefully, the men were responsible enough not to abandon their tasks in my absence.

I am greeted by cheerful shouts as I enter the back room of the café. The men declare that they have missed me and are glad I have returned. (How can they miss me, I wonder; they do not know me.) Comberferre claps me on the shoulder and asks if Grantaire cared for me well. I very nearly answer that if he were concerned, he could have checked in on me, that Grantaire was a better caretaker than any of them. But Marcellin has spoken out far too often as of late. I assure him that Grantaire was quite sufficient, I did not need looking after, and we had best get on to the meeting if they wanted to go home before midnight.

I am pleased at the productivity of my men; our weapons count is slowly increasing, as is the number of men who will be bearing them. We will be ready to fight by the end of May, or mid June at the latest. Four months, then. In all likelihood, I have four months to live.

_Best make them count, then,_ a voice in my head suggests_. Four months to live. It'd be a shame if you didn't live them to the fullest._

I turn to Grantaire, sitting at his table as always, once all the others have gone home. But something is different tonight. His eyes are clear and focused unwaveringly on my face. The expression on his ugly face is not the least bit mocking; I cannot fathom the look he is giving me, but I believe it most resembles loneliness.

"Something on your mind, Grantaire?'

"You sounded amazing tonight, Apollo. Did you make the speech more powerful than usual to make up for the lost nights?"

"Perhaps this was the first time you listened properly to what I was saying."

It wasn't meant as a reprimand and he does not take it as such. He thinks about his answer; it is the first time I've ever seen him consider his words. "I always listen, Enjolras; I'm just usually too afraid to hear." He stands, emerging from the safe shadows that share his corner, and sits by me in the center of the room. "I don't know if we'll win, Apollo; even you can't answer that. But is it worth dying for? I want it to be, but…I'm sorry. Am I talking my usual nonsense?"

"Of course not. You saw me just yesterday hesitate. It's a hard choice to attempt what we are doing."

The familiar wry smile creeps onto his face, but tonight it is marred by sorrow. "You worry about the others, great leader, about hurting them, and whether or not you'll bring change to France. Have you ever thought of running for your cause simply because you don't want to die?"

"No," I answer honestly.

He takes my delicate hand in his rough ones, swallowing the cold marble in coarse calluses, tense with emotion. "Give me that strength. Please, Enjolras!"

My mind struggles to form words that his cynicism can comprehend, but my heart answers before it has the chance. Somehow, I have always known the truth of what I am saying, though the words never occurred to me before. "You have it Grantaire. You see the unfair nature of our country, and of course you want things to improve. Hiding down a bottle was your method of escape, but as drunk as you were, you always came here, always listened. You heard my words and paid enough attention to see more of me than any of the others have. You're sober tonight. You were sober all those days you spent looking after me. Because I needed you, and you care enough to leave the haven of the green faerie to do what is required. If France were to ask, I do not believe you would hesitate in offering whatever you could to save her."

He looks away, and I fear I have said too much. I am about to stand and leave when he speaks, the words are soaked with unshed tears. "You believe in me."

Somehow, he is in my arms, sobbing unabashedly and clutching my neck. It is strange, I muse, that I reached such an emotional low yesterday that I was reduced to weeping on his shoulder, and today I have found the strength to comfort him, something he has silently begging me to do for years.

Why does this feel so right? I run my fingers through his hair, smoothing each tangle and knot along the way. He is apologizing for his behavior, but cannot stop the torrent of tears washing his face. "Shh. It's alright. We'll be fine. If we die, we die knowing it was right. Hush, now, Vivien."

In several minutes, the sobs have subsided into gentle sniffles. He looks up at me, a warm smile glowing like a rainbow through the residue of sorrow on his cheeks. "I know you aren't a god, Enjolras, but sometimes I think you truly are an angel."

Without another word, he disentangles himself from my arms, stands swiftly and leaves. But as he passes me, he pauses for a fraction of a second and kisses the top of my head.

I have but four months to live, yet this is the first moment I feel truly alive.

**Hope you enjoyed! PLEASE REVIEW! I really need help with this.**

**PS. Is this really OOC and awkward? I think OOC, no; awkward, yes!**


	8. Joyeux Anniversaire, Victor Hugo

**Joyeux Anniversaire, Victor Hugo! Attention dear readers! Today (February 26****th****) is Victor Hugo's 208****th**** birthday. This chapter is my gift to him. I hope he appreciates it, and I hope you do as well.**

He sits in his corner each night, as he has done for years. But the glass of wine before him empties slowly as the evening wears on and is never refilled more than once.

His mocking comments punctuate my speech, drawing snickers and disapproving head shakes from the men; I glare at him, though he can surely see the smile in my eyes. His remarks are amusing, calming moments of relaxation inserted amidst my demanding fervor; they are my links to reason, always there to ground me before my ideals carry me away.

When I ask for volunteers to carry out a variety of tasks designed to precipitate our revolution, he responds before any of the others, raising his overlarge hand high in the air.

The first time this occurs, several of the men laugh. "You, Grantaire?" Courfeyrac laughs. "One must care about a cause to fight for it." This master of wit has no snappish comment; he looks ashamed of himself.

I am Apollo. Childish spats between my men do not concern me as long as they accomplish their tasks.

I am Marcellin Enjolras, watching these foolish students bully my only friend for trying to improve himself and the ailing world around him.

"If the Winecask wants to do something useful with his life, gentlemen, by all means, we mustn't discourage him." There is more laughter at my words, but it is quickly followed by silence and the meeting resumes. Grantaire looks at me gratefully; he knows the good intentions behind my harsh words. He knows I cannot speak differently in the presence of my impressionable sheep.

He stays behind after the meetings end. We play wild games of make-believe, imagining living in the world we fought to create. I go over my plans and he listens for impracticalities, correcting them without the sarcasm he must employ at meetings. I work on my school papers while he sketches me. He thinks I do not see, and for a time I do not enlighten him.

The clock is tolling the hour of one. We have not spoken since the last brave student left the meeting, though the silence we share brings more warmth and comfort than the idle chatter of most men. I do not know why I say it; perhaps I am merely tired. "They are quite remarkable."

He looks up, startled by the interruption of our silence. "What are?"

"Your drawings. I only wish I could one day live up to them."

His face turns a blotchy red colour and his mouth opens wordlessly. Finally, he stammers, "When did you see…" but cannot bear to complete the thought.

"You left one on the floor several weeks ago." He turns away, shoving his current piece into his pocket roughly. "Grantaire!" I pull the crumpled paper from his pocket and smooth it on the edge of the table. "I'm flattered, really. To be the favorite subject of one so gifted…"

He looks at me, tears brimming in his eyes full of shame. "You're so beautiful, Apollo. You can't understand what it does to a wastrel like me, sitting in the presence of a hero. I want the world to see you shine, though all these sketches end up in a heap on my filthy floor. I'm sorry. I just don't know how… I'm sorry."

I take his rough face in my hands and turn it toward me. "You will be there, no? When we fight?"

"Of course. But it isn't enough! They have to see-"

"They see the cause, Vivien; that is enough for them."

If I ever look back on this moment I will swear that it was Grantaire who moved first. But I am not sure of this, not sure of anything except that his lips are on mine and I am not pulling away. He is soft and warm and gentle and nothing at all like I would have imagined, had I ever allowed myself to envision this moment before. I am no longer in my chair, but pressing him back against the table. His strong arms pull me closer to him; my face is nestled in his hair and his lips have found my neck.

There is no explosion, none of the violent burst of passion described by schoolboys and cheap novelists. The strongest feeling is a determination, a desire to set things right that I fulfill with each kiss. It is as if we are pressing the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle into place. Our bodies are the edges, seamlessly connecting and completing the broken picture we have always been capable of forming.

We release each other at the same moment, parting as naturally as we began. He stares at me with a look of shock, as if he cannot believe that the marble box encasing my heart has finally disintegrated.

"They see the cause," he whispers, continuing my words from before. "And we see everything else."

I nod.

Somehow, the others do not notice the change in us. I suppose that they have grown used to Grantaire volunteering for tasks and they assume that his desire to sit as part of the group is the natural progression of his newfound faith.

He sits at my table in the center of the room, his intense eyes glistening in the candlelight as he copies down notes on our meetings. He does not drink more than a glass of wine each night; I often finish it with him after the meeting has ended.

They do not see the peace I now feel, for they never knew how tormented I had been. But I am sure that my strengthened spirits have strengthened theirs; the meetings have been once again filled with a sort of determined fervor that I feared was dying out.

Most nights, we end up at my flat, working together to plan our insurrection. He insists that I go to sleep at two o'clock at the latest, claiming that he becomes too tired to work after that hour. I know he is concerned I will make myself ill again.

Just weeks ago, my bed was barely large enough for myself. How is it that it now comfortably accommodates two? We lie close to each other, just close enough to feel the other's presence. We do not kiss- there is enough time for that at the Musain after meetings. I can taste hope in the air as he wraps his arm around me, snoring softly into my hair. In these hours I believe it absurd to think we could lose the upcoming battle. At the barricades, I will lead my friends in the fight for France's freedom. Yet at the same time, Grantaire and I will fight for our freedom, for my freedom.

Soon, the people of France will be free from tyranny, and I will be free from the people of France. They will have to make their own way in the world I have helped them create; Marcellin Enjolras will be too busy living his own life to guide theirs.

It is May 7th, 1832. The men are straining at their reins; they are ready to fight. I am sure that our insurrection will begin within a month.

Our meeting tonight was remarkably productive and encouraging, especially Grantaire's report from the Café Julien, which he visited this afternoon on my behalf. Monsieur Sorel, the barman, has managed to procure double the amount of arms and powder than he had originally promised and his ranks have grown by ten more men.

But none of this is important right now. The meeting is over and Grantaire and I are walking back to my- our- flat. He has draped his arm over my shoulders and is whistling the national anthem. I never thought my personal life could mix with my patriotism; as I listen to his rather tuneless voice, I find that I was very much mistaken.

I turn left down the street that leads home, but find myself stopped by Grantaire, who is standing resolutely at the corner, his hand holding my wrist and his mouth twisted in an impish smile. "We're going this way."

**If you want to review my work, I would appreciate it, but more importantly, please take a moment to wish the greatest man who ever walked the earth a happy birthday.**

**Okay, I know this kinda cuts off. I promise there's more coming, but I just wanted to put this up on the birthday of Victor Hugo.**


End file.
